


Off

by orchidbreezefc



Series: Air [3]
Category: King Falls AM (Podcast)
Genre: Background Poly, Banter, M/M, Penis In Vagina Sex, THATS RIGHT THEYRE NOT CHEATING I FIXED IT, Trans Male Character, so much dumb banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 07:00:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17544908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchidbreezefc/pseuds/orchidbreezefc
Summary: Ben has a request to do things a little differently tonight.





	Off

**Author's Note:**

  * For [badskeletonpuns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badskeletonpuns/gifts).



> The KFAM server got me into trans Ben, and I love contradicting shit I've already written and posted, so have some trans Ben! Uses feminine coded language for his genitals.
> 
> Thank you to Twyx, Helen, and Ama for hearing me out as I wrote this, and especially thanks to Wendy who paved the way for NSFW Samben and also was just so goddamn excited for this one. I hope it measures up!

The two of them really shouldn't be here doing this. Not in the sense that Emily or Jack would be upset, because they wouldn't; Emily gave them her warmest blessings and Jack practically shoved them together in the first place. 

The thing is, Jack spent a lot of time in the library after his return, catching up on things and finally learning about King Falls's supernatural side straight from the source. He therefore spent a lot of time in the company of the irresistibly lovely librarian herself, and the self-help bookshelf next to the local lore section had the most interesting few books on polyamory, and, well.

Mostly they shouldn't be doing this in Sammy's _chair_.

"I have to clean this whole place every night anyway after Chet, seriously, Sammy, it's fine," is Ben's argument, spoken between kisses and love bites.

"Yes, Ben, thank you. That's exactly what I wanted to be thinking about right now, how did you know?" 

"Sammy, come on. I'll clean up, I don't mind." Ben presses his hips down against Sammy's as he speaks. Maybe he thinks that will win the argument for him. Sammy hopes he's wrong.

"I know _you_ don't mind, Ben," Sammy says, focusing on keeping his voice even. "I just don't want to be huge hypocrites or--or for Chet to say goddamn anything about it--"

"He wouldn't be upset! He'd probably be happy, or, like, proud, or something."

"That's what I'm afraid of!" Sammy says, indignant.

"Let's put it this way," Ben says, licking a stripe up Sammy's neck that makes him shudder. "Do you really want to move?"

Sammy eyes the studio gravely. There's the door, on the other side of the table. And then past that, there's--what? The lobby? A stuffy office full of cardboard boxes and papers and somehow still goddamn rats? A car out in the freezing mountain town dawn?

"If this chair breaks, you're explaining it to Merv," Sammy finally decides, and Ben gets in a fistpump before being kissed again.

Ben slips his hands in Sammy's shirt, riding it up and dancing his fingers over his ribs. Sammy has to breathe carefully, not quite ticklish but also not willing to give Ben any kind of ammunition. Ben, on the other hand, makes an incredibly undignified, incredibly fucking satisfying, squeak when Sammy grabs his ass in revenge. If Ben has ever been in control of his body or the sounds it makes, Sammy has no evidence of it.

Sammy leads a line of kisses over Ben's jaw. "So you mean business tonight, huh?" he says into the curly hair behind his ear, tone conversational except for the drop in pitch.

"I definitely want you to get me off, if that's what you're asking," Ben confirms breathlessly, scooting forward in Sammy's lap and squeezing his calves around his thighs.

"As long as we're on the same page." Sammy grins and flicks the button of Ben's jeans open. Ben goes still, holding his breath as the zipper comes down too. Sammy sneaks his fingertips into the waistband of Ben's boxers, pulls out his packer, and reaches past Ben to place it on the table. Ben's fingers flex on Sammy's shoulders.

Sammy would usually prefer to be slow about this, because Ben is so goddamn fun to tease, but he's worried Ben won't remember to fucking breathe unless he does something drastic. So he shoves his hand into Ben's underwear and curls a couple fingers into his vulva. Ben bucks and shouts.

"Fuck!"

"Just making sure you were paying attention."

"Paying attention?" Ben asks incredulously. "Fucking paying a--yeah, right, you got me. Had my head somewhere fucking else, I couldn't remember if I left the goddamn stove on. Do that again," he adds as Sammy quirks his fingers.

"Get those stupid skinny jeans off so I don't ruin my goddamn wrist and I will."

In the end Ben has to get up to do that, and the loss of him in Sammy's arms is a physical ache. But at least it gives Sammy the chance to get his own pants off and that goddamn zipper off his dick. They kick their shoes off and then Ben is back where he belongs.

Ben takes a moment to appreciate Sammy's erection before he moves forward. He gives what are probably supposed to be bedroom eyes but are marred by his pure delight. He does drop his voice a little, though, to say, "Are you turned on?"

"More turned on by you stopping to check like a fucking kid on a road trip asking 'are we there yet', ooh yeah, baby, that really does it for me." Sammy's voice hitches a bit, not as deadpan as he would prefer, but fuck it. At least that way Ben has his answer.

"You're such a shit!" Ben tugs Sammy's hair, just the way he likes it, and he _knows_ that, the little fucker.

"Ow, fuck," Sammy says anyway, hoping he'll trick Ben into remorse, but Ben just looks smug.

"Yeah, jackass. See? You mess with the bull--"

"I get the horndog," Sammy finishes. "Right."

"Horndog?" Ben repeats, scandalized. "First of all, how dare you--"

"Oh, you can _not_ deny that, all jacked up on hormones--"

"I am not a horndog! I am a perfect gentleman! And they're not fuckin' steroids, Sammy, I'm not juicing on goddamn testosterone."

"What, given up your theory on beard juice?" Sammy asks, and Ben rolls his eyes.

"Let's just get back to the part where you get me off," he says, and, well. Who is Sammy to say no?

Ben guides Sammy's mouth to his throat and sheds his boxers entirely to put the heel of Sammy's hand in place at his clit. And the way Ben goes at it, he may just get himself off without Sammy quite literally having to lift a finger. It's dizzying.

But then, when Ben's voice is approaching its crescendo, he slows down. He doesn't seem upset or anything, and in fact looks like stopping is just about literally painful. Sammy looks up at him for an explanation, hand still in place.

"Uh, Sammy?" Ben wavers, still rocking slightly, like he couldn't fully stop if he wanted to. "I was, uh, wondering. You got a condom on you?"

"Sure. What do you have in mind?" Sammy shifts in his seat with an eagerness he is trying to suppress. The handjobs and clothed frotting they've managed so far are one thing. If this is going to be anal, or a blowjob, that would be--well. Suffice it to say Sammy's trying not to get too excited.

"I just--I--I really need you inside me. Like, inside me inside me. PIV. Like, now." Ben grinds down again on Sammy's hand for emphasis.

Sammy blinks. Maybe all Ben's jokes about him losing his hearing are accurate, because that can't have been right. "What? Really? You want that?"

Ben shuts his eyes and nods. "I really do. Please. Do it before I change my mind."

"Change your _mind_?" Sammy echoes in horror. "Ben, I'm not doing fucking anything if you think you're going to change your _mind_ \--"

"Ugh, that's not what I meant. I'm not gonna go back on this or regret it, okay, you're the nicest guy in King Falls, my rape whistle is fucking dusty from lack of use, okay--"

"Ben--" Sammy says, and he uses the stern voice that signals he's about to put his foot down, so maybe it's his fault Ben cuts him off in what sounds like a mix of blurting shit out and complete sincerity:

"Rearrange my goddamn guts, Sammy."

Sammy's open mouth closes, and Ben can probably feel his cock twitch. "Jack-in-the-Box Jesus, Ben," he says with feeling. Then, "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

It's not like it doesn't sound--well, intriguing. Worth a shot, for sure, especially if Ben is going to be as into it as it sounds like he might be. But risking putting him through dysphoria like that sounds irresponsible.

"We can ease into it, see how it goes," Sammy decides, but Ben groans. "What?"

"I was serious with the 'like now' thing, Sammy. Burger King of goddamn kings. I do not need you to stretch me, I do not need lube, I'm fucking dripping wet here, dude, if your cock is not inside me when I count to ten--"

"Ben, I don't even have the condom on."

"Then put the condom on!" Ben wiggles impatiently, and Sammy sighs. He retracts his hand; Ben whines a little at the loss, which is too much for Sammy to unpack just now without short-circuiting his brain. He twists a bit to fish the condom out of the pocket of his jacket, draped over the back of his chair. 

Ben practically fucking bounces, he's so eager, but Sammy reaches past him and puts the condom on the table next to Ben's packer. "What?" Ben complains, turning to look behind him. "Come on!"

"We should at least try fingers first. That way if it makes you dysphoric you can bail then. Deal?"

Ben bristles at the sheer injustice of Sammy considering his feelings, but relents. "If you're quick about it, then yeah."

Sammy rolls his eyes, but he's not about to refuse and prolong this argument. He hitches Ben a little forward and guides him to sit up and angle his hips so that Sammy can reach. Ben takes a deep, steadying breath, and Sammy watches his face like a hawk. He holds Ben still by the hip with his free hand and reaches down, strokes past his clit--Ben shivers at the glancing contact--and further into his vulva. Ben closes his eyes and moans softly as Sammy leads his first two fingers in a spiral into him.

"Is this all right?" he asks when he's a couple knuckles deep, finding his voice muted.

"Yeah, it's peachy," Ben mutters, tipping his head back and ending his sentence with a groan. "Would be better--if it was your thick cock."

"Flattery will get you nowhere." The sarcasm comes as a reflex. Sammy's heart isn't in it because he still can't believe they're doing this, that Ben is letting him do this, that Ben _asked_ him to do this.

"Worth a shot." Ben rolls his hips with Sammy inside him, dragging himself against Sammy's fingers. Even Sammy moans a little at that, but Ben makes so much noise that he can probably be forgiven. 

"Oh, fuck, dude. This is, like, the opposite of bad for my brain. My brain is, like, actually filling up with oxy--oxycontin, or whatever, dopamine, so it's probably really, uh, really good for it, like you're making me grow brain cells or some shit. I can _feel_ myself getting smarter, oh, fuck, Sammy."

Sammy would tell him to shut up if this weren't his favorite part. Seeing Ben ramble through hitches of breath, watching his brain stumble through sentences as his body desperately chases pleasure. It's as hilarious as it is endearing as it is fucking hot as hell.

He should check if Ben's okay, but honestly, he sounds like he surpassed the 'okay' threshold a long time ago. So instead he gives Ben a deep, messy kiss, which Ben returns like they're in a fucking chick flick and reuniting in an airport after years apart or something. The point is, Ben is desperate, and he has a hand wound in Sammy's hair like it's the only thing anchoring him to the planet. Sammy gets the uncanny feeling that it's doing the same for him.

Sammy can barely remember what he was supposed to be asking about by the time Ben lets him breathe. Then Ben sinks down to the base of Sammy's fingers, and he's reminded. Ah. Right.

"Still okay?" Sammy asks, winded.

"I've been a good boy," says Ben curtly, tugging Sammy's hair. "And I'd really fucking appreciate it if you held up your--your end--of the bargain, now."

Sammy has no smartass response for that. Ben has a point. He pulls out, pretends he didn't buck his hips in response to the cry Ben made at the sensation, and snatches the condom. Ben reaches for it and is halfway through saying, "Let me, your hands are all slipp--" when Sammy has it open.

"Damn, Sammy," Ben says, impressed. "Skillage."

"Don't ever say that not-a-word again, Ben, or I swear to God, this is the last time we do this," Sammy warns. He pulls himself out of his boxers without ceremony and rolls the condom on.

"I'll have to make the most of it, then," Ben says, shifting up higher onto his knees and grinning unapologetically. "Because I definitely plan to always say whatever I want, forever."

"Is that why you work out so much?" Sammy says in a false tone of revelation. "So you can say stupid bullshit nonstop while I fuck you and never get out of breath?"

"It's a perk, yeah. My tradeoff for not having a cute soft tummy like yours. You ready?"

"Say just one more goddamn word about my stomach, I dare you," Sammy hisses. Ben just gives him a saccharine smile, and he relents. "Yeah. Any time you are," he says, taking hold of Ben's hip with one hand and positioning his dick with the other. "Just take it slow, okay? It's not a goddamn race."

"Easy for you to say, you haven't been getting fucking edged for the last half hour," Ben mutters.

"Ben Arnold, I know for a fact you did not just blame that on--" Sammy's voice cuts out entirely, because Ben sinks down onto him in a way that is not even in the neighborhood of taking it slow. "Oh, _fuck_."

"Whoops," Ben says, flashing an evil grin. Then he shifts his hips lower and it twitches and falls from his face, transforming into an expression of helpless pleasure. "Oh my goddamn fuck."

"Have you ever done this before?" Sammy realizes he's yet to ask. He grips Ben's hips and holds him still so Ben can adjust properly instead of immediately riding Sammy like he clearly wants to.

Ben shakes his head tightly. "Didn't want--anybody but you, it would have been... yeah."

"Oh," Sammy says, trying not to sound like he's been punched in the gut. "Okay."

Ben smiles, shaky but genuine. He covers one of Sammy's hands on his hips, and Sammy lets him rise up and sink back down, slow and experimental.

Ben closes his eyes and tips his head back. There's dark stubble on his neck, and his sweaty curls frame his face like a Renaissance painting. "That feels so good, Sammy, fuck, you have no idea."

"I have some idea, Ben," Sammy points out, but honestly, none of it even compares to seeing Ben like this. He doesn't care too much about the sensation, never really has--it's Ben Arnold, pure and simple, that really gets him off.

Ben rises up again and back down, still slow, still figuring it out. Sammy kisses him through it and strokes the inside of his quaking thighs as Ben does it again, once, twice. Sammy begins to move up and down to meet him as he feels Ben's movements become more consistent, more confident. Ben's mouth is forming the shapes of words, but it's anyone's guess what they are, because he keeps going between moaning to wake the dead and too overtaken to make any sound at all.

Sammy goes back to gripping Ben's hips and tries to guide him in rhythm with his own long, luxurious strokes. But now that Ben has the hang of this, he apparently wants to go as hard and fast as his body can manage. Honestly, it feels pretty fucking amazing, even though it's jarring going at different speeds. Ben's not even bothering to find a proper rhythm, he's just going and _going_ and there's no way Sammy could keep up.

"Fuck, Ben," he mutters, sweaty and tiring and awed.

"Ah," Ben says, and on his third try manages to form words. "T-touch me. Please."

Sammy can't believe he hasn't been, what kind of a partner is he--but with Ben putting on a show like that, it's easy to forget about everything. He puts his hand between them and rolls Ben's clit between his fingers, which is about the point where Ben gets loud enough to make Sammy grateful for the soundproofing, and, well.

Sammy comes first, which is unexpected and, frankly, embarrassing, given how gloriously wound up Ben has been all night. But it doesn't matter all that much, because a particularly strong twitch of his fingers at Ben's clit during the aftershocks sends Ben over the edge after him.

Something soaks his thighs and the boxers still around them. He's pretty confident it's not semen leaking down the condom; he would be able to feel that against his skin, and instead he feels it on the outside of--oh.

"You're a fucking _squirter_ , Ben Arnold," Sammy realizes aloud, still panting. "Of course you are."

"Wh--what?" Ben squirms. "Is that what--I--I've never done that before! _Stop fucking laughing_!"

Luckily for Ben, it doesn't take Sammy too long to get out of breath from laughter, though Ben does yell at him the entire time until he does. Then, in the midst of his fading wheezes, Sammy remembers something. "Oh god. My poor chair."

"He's dead, Jim," Ben observes solemnly, putting a consoling hand on his shoulder. "Only so much I could have done. I'm sorry for your loss."

"Yeah, we're definitely switching seats."

"The fuck we are!" Ben shouts, but this time when Sammy laughs he ends up laughing too.

But soon discomfort sets in, and Sammy has to pull out and tie off the condom. He tosses it in the trash can under the table, wipes his hands on his already hopeless boxers, and warns, "If you leave that there for Chet to find, I will not leave you a pretty corpse." He nuzzles Ben's shoulder affectionately.

Ben laughs and strokes Sammy's hair, then teases, "You know, dude, that wasn't so rough. None of that really was. I thought you liked it rough?"

"I do. I wanted--" _our first time_ \--"I wanted this time to be just. Nice."

"Oh," Ben says, his voice small as if he heard what Sammy didn't say. "Well. It was. Thanks." He nudges his head into Sammy's shoulder in return, so he's not looking at him when he says, "Was it--you know. Good for you, too?"

Sammy focuses on the question and not how deeply charmed he is by the delivery. "Well, I'll be honest, when you suggested it, I, uh... kind of didn't think I was going to get off at all."

"Am I a bad lay?" Ben says, clearly aiming for playfully cool, missing entirely, and falling ass-first into the 'please god say no' zone.

"No, not even close, it's just." Sammy runs a hand back through his hair. "Jack and I tried this a couple of times, neither of us could get into it."

"He didn't like it?" Ben pulls away to look at Sammy in disbelief. "But you were so good at it. How did you get that good, anyway? You're a gay dude, if you only did it a couple times with Jack and that wasn't good--unless you're a fucking chaser or something, you can't have been with that many more guys who were--you know--"

Sammy shakes his head. "I spent a lot of years in the closet. I got pretty good with my hands to distract women from the limp dick, but sometimes you gotta picture Leonardo DiCaprio and go for it."

"Oh, god." Ben buries his face in his hands. "Oh god, I didn't ask if you even _wanted_ \--that was probably so gross for you, you've been gay all your life, you didn't sign up for my--for my situation--"

"Hey." Sammy kisses Ben's nose and takes his hand. "Hey, stop. I hated it with women, but that's because they were women. You are every inch a man's man's man, and you know what? I am completely gay for you."

Ben peers at him anxiously. He squeezes Sammy's hand, like a question, and Sammy squeezes back, like an answer. "You sure?"

"Of course. You are one of a kind, Ben Arnold." The way Ben beams in response is too much to bear to look at, so Sammy kisses him instead.

But really. They're going to have to do something about the chair.


End file.
